Rarely have I so fervently wished for a book to hit another gear, even after 200 pages revealed a series of disjointed and confusing plot lines with no apparent common thread. Perhaps in the next 300 pages, these threads would conjoin? Alas. Hailed by some of my favorite writers as a visionary work of fiction, upon completion I'm hard-pressed to see what they felt. The Vorrh - the titular forest in the middle of Africa that is spoken of with fear and wonder - is little more than a tertiary character in a book that contains elements of too many different novels to work as anything other than a dismembered collection of short stories. Even when a few plot lines joined - and many simply never did - it felt forced and fleeting, as they quickly diverged once again with no discernible payoff. On several occasions when a break in chapters reverted to a boring character perspective I audibly groaned to myself. "Not Muybridge again. Ugh."

To be fair, there are elements of interesting stories interspersed here. A more substantial story about the timber industry's reliance on zombified workers with an apparent hive mind intelligence connected to the soul of the forest was interesting. As was the cat and mouse balance between Bowman and hunter, which contained greater potential than it reached. In more delicate hands, the story of Ishmael could have been expanded into a compelling tale of human nature. But even these plots felt flat and others collapsed completely.

A weird and rambling book that perhaps hides a great deal of meaning behind its convoluted and vague threads; but heck if I figured this one out.